Patronus Wizards
by MagikCat
Summary: A Patronus is only as powerful as the conjurer. Four young wizards discover if they have what it takes as they grow up in an uncertain world. A/N: Character Tags might change with each part.
1. James Potter: The Stag Prince

_**James Potter: The Stag Prince**_

**---^---**

_The Stag____stands for solitary nobility, honour and a strong commitment to the protection of their herd. The Stag is a symbol of protection and sexuality. They are extremely devoted to the care, and creation, of children. Stags focus on the balance of law and are rigid in their thinking on the issues of justice._

— _David Legg of the Order of the Bards on_ the Symbolism of Stags

**---^---**

Screams. Yells. Euphoria. Panic.

Images whirled around him like a whirlwind, forcing and pulling him every which way. He didn't know whether he was up or down or both.

Up. Down. Over. Under. Around and around. . . .

Where was he? He wanted out. He needed out!

Colors and sounds blazed past his eyes. Nothing made sense. Nothing made sense.

And through the thick smog of confusion, he heard it. Laughter. High-pitched, cruel laughter. He had only heard it once in all his encounters with Voldemort, and even the thought of it always turned his bones to turn to icicles. Where was Lily? Where was his son? They had to be safe. He had to protect his them . . .

And then he saw them — the only clear figures in the storm of color. Lily, her violent red hair bustling like flames, happily twirling with their son in her arms as the laugher grew louder. Didn't she hear it?

He tried to yell at her, to tell her to run. But his tongue seemed to swell in his mouth and she only smiled at him and waved.

A shadow grew from behind his family — a horrible, shapeless shadow that crawled over them like smoke. The laugher was louder than ever.

With a flash of green light, they were gone.

And as a moment of despair such as he had never known consumed him James woke up, sitting up so fast his stomach seemed to be left lying on the mattress.

The room was out of focus and it took a few seconds to realize he didn't have his glasses on. He grabbed them, pushed them to his face, and then turned to what he prayed would be a live body beside him.

It was. Lily slept peacefully, oddly unperturbed by James's distress, her mouth slightly opened and a curtain of hair falling over the side of her face. James took a long, calming breath as his shaky fingers gently moved the strands behind her ear. Lily breathed out slightly at his touch, the way she always did when she was sleeping.

Although assured that his wife was still beside him, the aftermath of the panic still made his heart pound like a mallet against his ribs. He knew the only way to quell it would be to check the other bedroom.

His skin was frozen from the sweat covering his body. In an attempt to trap in some body heat he grabbed the t-shirt he had thrown on the carpet the night before, trying not to think about what had caused his paranoia. At the door, he couldn't help looking at his wife one more time, almost afraid to let her out of his sight, before reluctantly closing it.

Switching on the lights, James sneaked silently across the hall, and though he was still shaking, he couldn't help smiling a little at the irony. Sneaking had been somewhat of a pastime at Hogwarts — who would've thought he'd be doing it in his own home?

A large, wooden "H" painted red and gold was nailed upon his son's bedroom door. James opened it and a sliver of light fell upon a black-haired baby asleep in his crib. He slept on his stomach, mouth open a little and fist curled — the same position as his mother. Harry was peacefully asleep, innocently unaware of his father's anxiety.

James sighed with relief and carefully began to step back, pulling the door closed. Perhaps he could make a sandwich . . .

He hadn't noticed, however that Lily's dark grey cat had been following him through the hall, hoping for an early breakfast, and had placed itself right behind its owner's husband as he checked the room. When James stepped back, he had the unfortunate luck of treading on its tail. It gave a mighty wail and hiss, clawing at the offending foot. The pain caused James to leap forward into the nearly closed door, banging it open again with his head. He whispered a few furious curse words as the cat streaked off.

Suddenly, the small body in the crib began to fuss, scrunching his eyes in the sudden flood of light and squirming unhappily.

A new kind of dread filled the baby's father. Lily would murder him if she found out he had woken Harry up. He rushed into the room and put a soothing hand on the infant's back, patting in a firm, soothing rhythm. Yet it was too late — though Harry miraculously did not cry, he lifted his head to peer curiously up at the offender who had awakened him.

"Hey, Seeker," James murmured.

Harry soon realized who he was, and he gave James a grin as he pulled himself to his feet, reaching out towards his father.

"Doesn't look like either of us is going to get much sleep tonight," James told him with a laugh as he lifted Harry into his arms and flicked his wand at a nearby lamp.

He sat himself in the old rocking chair that had belonged to his parents when James had been born, its creaking strangely soothing as he placed Harry in his lap. Harry leaned against his chest, examining James's fingers in that intense way that babies examine everything.

It seemed unfair that this harmless child was so hated by the most evil wizard ever. Harry had never even thought about hurting another person, and now he was being hunted down by a madman.

James hoped spitefully that stupid prophetess — Salami or whatever the hell her name was — never had another prophecy again. Because if the only ones she could make endangered families, then she deserved to have her head stuck in a vat of frogspawn.

But they had done everything to protect themselves, James told himself. The Fidelius Charm had been perfectly performed only yesterday. Wormtail might not be the brightest wand in Ollivanders, but he was eager to please and looked up to James. Padfoot had been right — he was the last person You-Know-Who would think was the Secret Keeper.

Still, it was male instinct, wasn't it? Protecting his home and all that? He had tried to be strong for his wife and son, but in his nightmares he felt as helpless as the child on his lap.

He noticed Harry had stopped playing with his fingers. He stared up at him with his head tilted to the side, as though perplexed at his father's dark mood. James managed a smile.

"Don't worry, Seeker," he told him. "Daddy's just being a grump." He tapped Harry's nose, and the baby giggled.

James took out his wand. There was one spell that he had never shown Harry, the one that always made James feel better somehow. He thought of when he, Lily, and Harry had spent the day at the beach only a few months ago. Without hesitation, the picture of Lily in a sexy swimming costume as she and Harry built a sandcastle rose in his mind. It had been one of their last carefree days.

"_Expecto Patronum._"

A large silver stag burst from his wand and padded into the room.

Harry squealed in delight, and James smiled at the familiar pride he felt as he watched his stag trot through the room, waving its great antlered head. One of the defining moments of his life was when he realized stags were "his" animal — first as his Patronus, then as the one which kept Moony company every full moon. They were a bit like him, he admitted: a bit of a show-off (especially for their mates, he thought with a grin) but fiercely protective.

"You want a story, Seeker?" he asked as the stag faded away. James didn't want to stop talking — if he did, he just might go back to that gloomy place he had barely escaped.

Harry merely looked up at him and James pretended his son had said "yes." He didn't know many stories, but he was good at making them up as he went along.

"Once upon a time . . . there was this bloke. Now this bloke was the most charming and handsomest bloke in all the land. He was a prince, actually. We'll call him . . . Jimmy, all right? Now Prince Jimmy was head-over-heels in love with this princess named Lillian, who had flaming red hair and a wild personality. Redheads are the best kind of girls to fall in love with — remember that, Seeker — but unfortunately, Prince Jimmy was a bit _too_ charming for Princess Lillian, and he tended to tease her a lot because he wasn't very bright at showing her how he felt. So instead of being thrilled, she called him an insolent toe-rag whenever he tried asking her out — to marry him of course, 'cause they didn't date back then. And the Prince wondered what to do to win Princess Lillian's heart."

Harry only gazed at him, and James was finding the story easier to tell the longer he talked.

"Then one day, a messenger came to the Prince's kingdom to tell him that the Princess Lillian had been captured by the evil, greasy-haired knight, Sir Sniv-a-lot, and locked away in a cage in the forest. Well, Prince Jimmy couldn't have that. So, he cast a spell to turn into a stag — which is basically that lover boy of a male deer that you just saw, Harry — to track Princess Lillian down, and raced into the forest to rescue her. The Stag Prince ran through the forest for days and days without resting or eating or even going to the bathroom. Well, maybe a little of second and third one — just a little bit, mind you.

"Then the Stag Prince finally came to the lair of the evil knight, who was trying to impress the Princess by showing off how many Dark Arts spells he knew. But Princess Lillian, being smart enough to know that the Dark Arts are no good, called him a great greasy git — and that's even worse than an insolent toe-rag, mind you — and refused to even look at him. Well, the Prince turned back into a human and threw hexes at the knight with his wand before he even saw him coming. Sir Sniv-a-lot ran into the forest crying for his mother, and Prince Jimmy rescued Princess Lillian from her cage. They snogged silly for ages, then got married right there on the spot. And they lived happily ever after.

"And the moral of the story is . . . stags and princes kick evil knights' arr — bottoms. Right, Seek — Harry?"

Without him noticing, Harry had snuggled upon James's chest, mouth opened and fists curled in the familiar form of sleep.

"Couldn't even stay awake for my story," he muttered, slowly getting to his feet and placing him in the crib. Harry squirmed but again did not wake.

"An interesting story," a familiar voice whispered from behind, just as James had flicked off the light. He turned and saw Lily leaning against the doorframe, smiling slightly at him. James grinned sheepishly.

"How much did you hear?"

"Enough to know that's not exactly how I remember it."

"I'm a bit fuzzy on the details," James said dismissively. He stared at his son, feeling his heart clench. Harry deserved to live a life like this: blissful and without nightmares.

Lily slipped her arms around James, and he kissed the top of her head. "He'll be fine," she told him softly, as if sensing his thoughts.

"What if he isn't?" he asked, speaking the words he had been too afraid to utter until this moment. "What if . . . what if something bad happens to him? He's . . . bloody hell, he's just a baby! He can't face You-Know-Who on his own! What if I can't . . . What if I can't be the protector he needs?"

"You're a protector who would rather die defending the ones he loves than run away." She leaned into his chest. "There's no better kind."

"He has you, too," he reminded her, raising an eyebrow. "And you can be a vicious little tigress when you want to be." She smiled, but he knew that Lily saw through his joke — knew that the anxiety continued to gnaw at his insides. She could always see through him like that.

There was a deep silence as husband and wife gazed at their son.

"Harry will probably be asleep for a few more hours," she murmured after a few minutes, stroking the back of her fingers down James's face.

He shivered under her touch, knowing the gesture well. Normally, he jumped at the chance, but . . . "Lil, do you really think this is the best time for . . . that?"

"Please, James," she whispered. "I have a feeling — we might not . . . _have time_ . . . in the near future." Her bright green eyes, the ones he could never say no to, were pleading with him.

Somehow, he had the feeling she was right. Perhaps it was the spirit of Halloween, when he and his friends had always been at their most aware, but . . . _something_ . . . was niggling at him. As if something big was going to happen. He took the hand from his face and held it tightly in his own. "All right." If it would be the last time in a long time, he wanted it to be a time to remember.

Lily turned and quietly made her way to the bedroom with James following behind. At the doorway, he stopped to look back at his sleeping son. A rush of protectiveness and pride flowed through his bloodstream. You-Know-Who's enemy or not, he couldn't ask for a better son.

And he would be sure to be there when Harry kicked the world in the arse.

**---^---**

"_You don't raise heroes, you raise sons. And if you treat them like sons, they'll turn out to be heroes, even if it's just in your own eyes."_

— Walter M. Schirra, Sr.

**---^---**

_**A/N:**__ This is a series of different pairings, so this is the only time you will see this in the James/Lily characters. If you would like to continue to read this, place this on your Story Alert or check the Ron/Hermione pairings sometime next week._

_The James seen here is probably a different James than you read before, but hopefully I didn't scare too many readers off. This is the saddest it gets, I promise! There is romantic sweetness is in store for everyone soon._

_Thanks to __**queenb23**__, who happily agreed to pre-beta it after I had disappeared for a year, __**RedSioda**__ for her wonderful encouragement and suggestions, and __**shiiki**__ for her help with my runaway commas and missing words. You rock, ladies!_

_Next: Ron and a small dog . . ._


	2. Ron Weasley: The Terrier Hero

_**Ron Weasley: The Terrier Hero**_

---^---

"_The __Jack Russell__ is . . . an extremely good working terrier, and has become enormously popular as a household pet with many people, including the elderly. However, it can be somewhat excitable and is really better being the companion of an active child."_

— Joan Palmer on Jack Russell Terriers, _The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Dog Breeds_

---^---

As the tawny owl flew out of the window in a single swoop, Ron stared at the letter on the kitchen floor with a mixed feeling of puzzlement and irritation. Having just awoken, part of him wanted to ignore the letter until he had at least finished his morning coffee. He didn't recognize the emblem on the front or the owl that had delivered it.

After a few minutes of gazing at the letter as though hoping it would explain itself, Ron's curiosity won out and he Summoned it with his wand.

As was his recent habit, he used a Scanning Spell to scan it for unfriendly or Dark magic. A letter with a particularly nasty jinx he had received last month made him open unfamiliar deliveries with gentle care. Finding nothing to be afraid of, he broke the seal and pulled out the letter.

As he did, a small card fell out onto the table. It looked like the one you would find in a Chocolate Frog. Before he could wonder at the oddity of this, he realized that instead of an elderly looking wizard or witch, his own face was smiling bashfully back at him.

Surely this was one of George's jokes . . .

He picked up the letter again.

_Dear Mr. Weasley,_

_We are pleased to announce that you have been selected for this year's new Chocolate Frog Card. Your many accomplishments and heroics during the Second War are a prime example of what we look for in choosing a new magical witch or wizard for this honor._

_You will find the very first one created enclosed in this letter._

_Congratulations,_

_B__illy Waynko  
President of Chocolate Frogs, Inc._

Ron picked up the card again with slightly shaking fingers, staring at his picture. _Him?_ On a Chocolate Frog Card? That was . . .

"_Bloody hell,_" he muttered.

It had been of no surprise when Hermione was given the same honor last year. And Harry the year before that. But he had never thought. . . . He hadn't _done_ anything, really.

_"Honestly, Ron,"_ a voice like Hermione piped up, _"you haven't been exactly eating bon-bons and sitting in front of the telly, have you?"_

No, he hadn't. But still. . . .

He placed the card on the table without looking at the back, leaning in his chair as a memory he had half-forgotten rose up into his brain.

_"Noodle__'s got a way of knowing the great achievers from the normal ones."_

And without soon he was thinking back many years ago on a summer day much like this one. . .

Walking down the road to Ottery St. Catchpole, Ron couldn't help the slight feeling of unease.

Mum was still having kittens about the Quidditch World Cup fiasco the night before last. Her face had seemed to go indefinitely pale and her eyes shifted to their family clock every time she walked past it, as though expecting their names to jump to 'Mortal Peril' at any second.

Ron knew that he and his siblings perhaps understood her paranoia more than Hermione and Harry could. His friends hadn't grown up with the horrific tales about You-Know-Who the way Ron had. His Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon had been killed during the War, and from what Bill had told them, their deaths had made Mum nearly fall to pieces.

He couldn't imagine losing Ginny or any of his brothers. Or Harry. Or Hermione.

Perhaps it was this that made him insist on accompanying Hermione when she wanted to go to the village to buy some cat food for Crookshanks. Harry was taking a nap, and it seemed too soon after the Death Eaters' drunken jaunt for her to be wandering alone. Hermione was Muggle-born and whether Ron wanted to admit it or not, Malfoy had a point that Hermione could be a walking target.

He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but the Death Eaters, the panic, the wondering if he was going to see his family, Malfoy's taunts about Hermione . . . it had scared him. Scared him far more than when Sirius Black had dragged him to the Shrieking Shack. He had tried to ignore it for Harry's sake — Hermione worried enough for both of them — but he had overheard his Mum and Dad talking about how it seemed like the war all over again, and it made him queasy.

If that had been just a piece of what the war was like . . .

Well, it's over now, he told himself. Those wizards had been pissed and they'd be stupid to try to strike again.

Still, even if technically Hermione could take care of herself — and there was no doubt that she was a very capable witch — or if Fred and George took the mickey out of him later, he wanted to be sure that she stayed okay. She was much too stubborn to worry about herself, so he would have to.

"Your mum seems better," Hermione interrupted.

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "She seems to've calmed down."

She cocked her head in a shrewd kind of way. "What about you?"

He squirmed, wondering if she had been reading his mind. He really didn't want to talk with her about what he had been feeling. It seemed . . . awkward, somehow. Besides, she did enough worrying about Harry without having to add him to her list.

"I wasn't expecting those . . . Death Eater nutters," he admitted lamely.

"No one was," she told him calmly.

"Still, I wish someone had been able to unmask Malfoy's father — I'm sure Dad would've been thrilled." He grinned at the picture of a mask being stripped away to reveal Lucius Malfoy's horrified face, followed by him being shackled and flown off to Azkaban.

"I'm sure he would've," Hermione laughed. Then her smile disappeared, and she looked away, putting a hand to her mouth as an embarrassed blush appeared on her cheeks. She had been doing that a lot, lately.

"Something wrong with your mouth, Hermione?"

The blush deepened, and she wrenched her hand away from her mouth as though she had been burned. "Erm, no. Just a — just a cold sore, that's all."

Ron shrugged.

They were on the edge of the village. It was in the middle of the afternoon, but a few people were still bustling about the shops with bags of goods dangling from their arms. A group of school children were playing marbles under the low-storied buildings and a small dog was gnawing on a stick at the street corner.

"Any idea where the pet shop is?" Hermione asked.

"Yep." When he was a kid, the Up and Down Pet Shop had been one of his favorite places in Ottery. He well remembered pressing his nose up against the glass of the shop begging his mum for one of the puppies. It wasn't a place he was likely to forget soon. "C'mon," he said, leading the way up the street.

They had only walked about a block when he felt the uncomfortable feeling of someone's stare at his back. He tightened his fist around his wand in his pocket and turned casually to look behind him.

The whole street seemed to be unaware of their presence — except for the small dog he had notice earlier. It was trotting a little ways behind them, staring directly at Ron. Seeing the redhead's look of curiosity seemed to initiate it further, and it quickened its pace.

_Is that . . . ? No. No. It can't be._

Ron shook his head, and continued walking. Perhaps it was a coincidence.

They hadn't gone far when once more the hairs prickled on the back of Ron's neck, and he glanced behind him again. The dog, a terrier of some kind, had caught up enough to walk in Ron's shadow. It was white with spots of tan and brown, and was gazing intensely at Ron, as though he was a particularly interesting fire hydrant.

He stopped and the dog stopped, too. "Er . . . Hermione?"

Hermione turned. "What —?" She stopped, and her mouth fell into an "o" shape as the dog cocked its head, lowered its front body, and wagged its tail in that "I'm-an-adorable-little-doggy" way.

"It's so _cute_," Hermione cooed. She fell to her knees and held out her hand to the animal. "Hey there. Where did you come from?"

The dog sniffed Hermione's hand, decided she was safe, and nuzzled her palm. But it kept its gaze on Ron.

"Say hello, Ron," she prodded.

He squatted and held out his hand like Hermione had. The dog's tail wagged harder, and it lapped at Ron's palm excitedly without sniffing.

Hermione gave a little giggle. "I think he likes you."

Ron, slightly nonplussed, scratched the dog lightly behind the ears. It leaned into his fingers so hard Ron was afraid it might fall over if he pulled his hand away.

"Does he have a tag or something?" Hermione asked.

Ron checked the collar. Sure enough, a pair of metal tags hung in front of its chest. He looked at them. The first had just one word: "Noodle"; the other had an address on it.

"Noodle?" Hermione said when he showed her the tags. "That's an odd name for a Jack Russell."

Of course Hermione would know what breed it was. "It's an odd name for any dog," Ron corrected. "I reckon we should bring him home?"

Hermione nodded, and Noodle, as though understanding him, leapt up into Ron's arms before Ron could even think to stop it. Noodle wasn't heavy, but the movement had surprised him. "Bloody hell!"

She let out another small laugh, "You hold him, then."

As the two of them began looking for the address on the dog's tags, Ron couldn't help noticing some of townspeople's stares, as though they couldn't quite believe what they were seeing. He thought they must've looked like an odd pair, him carrying a dog down the street like a sack of potatoes, while Noodle licked at Hermione's hand.

About half an hour later, they stopped at a stone cottage on the edge of town. The walls looked like they had been recently been painted and a huge vegetable garden grew in the front. Noodle barked happily at the sight of it.

"Took long enough to find your house, boy," Ron told the dog as they walked up the cobblestone pathway to the threshold. Noodle had been growing increasingly heavier.

The simple knocker was so low on the darkly-colored door that Hermione barely had to lift up her arm to use it.

For a few minutes, no one answered. Just when Ron was going to suggest she try again, there was a shuffling from inside. The door opened, and a tiny, grey-haired old man peered at them as he bent over an exotic-looking cane.

Ron cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but —"

"Noodle!" the old man cried, grabbing the dog away from him in a surprisingly quick movement. "Noodle, what have I said about taking off like that? Papa was worried sick!" The dog licked the man's face imploringly, and his owner laughed. Then he looked up, as though noticing Ron and Hermione for the first time, and his bespectacled eyes widened in disbelief. "You? You too brought Noodle home?"

"Er, yeah," Ron replied, surprised.

"And — and he let you carry him all the way?"

"Didn't have much of a choice — he was the one who jumped on me."

"He —? Well, this is most peculiar." The man placed Noodle on the floor and shook both their hands. "Where are my manners? I'm Jacques Lessur, and you are . . . ?"

"I'm Hermione Granger," Hermione piped up. "And this is Ron Weasley."

"A pleasure, a pleasure," Lessur said. "I'm sorry, you'll have to pardon my earlier shock. Noodle is usually a bit. . . ." He laughed slightly. "Well, a bit _cranky_ when it comes to strangers — won't let them come near him."

"What?" Ron asked, glancing at the innocent-looking dog. "But . . . he was the one who followed _me_."

"He loves women, Lord bless him, but men . . . not so much." The old man shrugged. "But, well, there must've been something he liked about you."

He cocked his head at Ron, and he looked so much like Noodle in that moment that Ron had to bite back the urge to laugh.

"Noodle's got a way of knowing the great achievers from the normal ones," he said softly. "He sniffs out people with potential better than anyone I know. And the way he's taken to you . . ." He turned to Hermione. "This young man has greatness in him — don't let him go."

Hermione blinked. "Sir —?"

"Won't say no more," the old man interrupted in sing-song voice. "Thank you for bringing Noodle back. If you're ever in need of any vegetables, just drop by. I've got to give Noodle his late lunch. Have a good day, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger."

Startled by his quick dismissal, Hermione and Ron barely chorused, "Good day," before Mr. Lessur insistently closed the door on them.

They looked at each other, and Ron shrugged as they made their way off the property.

As they walked to the pet shop, Ron was quiet. He wanted to believe the old man, really — he had said some really rather flattering things, after all. But . . . now that he thought about it, could he believe a man who rated a wizard by how much his _dog_ liked them? More likely than not, the man was off his rocker.

"I've never met a man like him," Hermione said finally.

Ron shrugged.

"He seemed to like you a lot, though." She smiled briefly.

He felt his ears turned red and he mumbled, "Don't make fun. . . ."

"I'm not making fun," she insisted, sounding affronted.

"Well, he definitely was," he said, almost irritably. "Or he isn't all there. 'Noodle sniffs out great achievers' — what rubbish."

"It's not rubbish, Ron," Hermione said hotly, placing a hand on his arm to stop him. "And he wasn't making fun. I _know_ he really believes it. And . . . and so do I, for that matter."

He turned to her, a scoff halfway to his throat, when something in her face stopped him. He had never seen that look before — so . . . _open_. And instead of a dismissal, he asked in a soft voice, "Really?"

She nodded, gazing into his face with the same open look. "I've always thought so."

And somehow, he believed her.

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Thanks, Hermione."

Hermione smiled, and Ron felt something warm burn in his chest. He had felt it before, in happy moments all throughout their friendship, but this time it was hotter, and . . . stronger, somehow.

Ron grinned as he shook himself from the memory. He wouldn't admit it until years later, but in that moment, his feelings towards Hermione, which had perhaps always been buried beneath the bickering and annoyances, began to surface, though he was too young to understand it. And a couple of years later, when it unexpectedly became the happy thought that helped him cast a Patronus for the first time, he almost wasn't surprised to see a Jack Russell Terrier spring out of his wand.

And the old man hadn't been wrong, after all, hadn't he? Ron had done a lot of things in the years since then. Things he was proud of.

Before he could consider reading the back of the card, the door to his apartment opened, and his girlfriend walked through the door, a bag of groceries in her arms. He wasn't surprised. Sometimes Hermione liked to pop in and make him something to practice her cooking skills, and Ron was a willing consultant.

She hung up her purse. "Oh, wonderful," she said, seeing him at the table. "You're up. I thought I'd make you breakfast. Susan just gave me a new recipe for French toast that I thought you might like to —"

"Hermione," he interrupted, getting to his feet. She stopped and looked at him. "Look what just came by owl."

"Ron, what —?" But as she came closer and recognized what it was, she gave a small scream and leapt into his arms, knocking the wind out from him.

"I knew it! I knew it! I _knew_ when I was asked about your favorite things that something was up! Oh, _Ron _—!"

Ron burst into laughter when he had caught his breath. "_Merlin's pants, Hermione!"_

"Well?" she demanded, after she had thoroughly kissed the stuffing out of him. "What did they say?"

He sat in the nearest chair and pulled Hermione onto his lap. "I don't know," he admitted.

"You mean you haven't read it?"

"No . . . you do it."

"Ron, don't you —?"

"No, I want _you_ to." For some reason, listening to Hermione's voice read it would make a good thing even better.

She looked at him curiously as Ron handed her the card. She looked and spoke with the same intensity used when she read _Hogwarts, a History_.

"_'A wizard mostly praised for his part in the destruction of You-Know-Who, Weasley is also known for expanding joke shop Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes into a global corporation with his brother, George, his tireless work as an Auror in the re-establishing of the Wizarding community in Britain, and the capture of many escaped Death Eaters and criminals. Weasley enjoys chess and Quidditch.'_"

She looked up with her face beaming. "Ron, this is wonderful."

Ron grinned at her. Her excitement was contagious. "It's my finest hour, that's for sure. 'Cept when I kissed you, of course."

Hermione gave him a brief look that said, I_ kissed _you_, you prat _— but to his surprise let it slide.

Instead, she smirked at him slyly. "They paint you as a very respectable wizard, Mr. Weasley," she said, placing the card on the table. "But they haven't mentioned _everything_."

"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Oh yes." She wrapped her arms around his neck. "You cast a remarkable Patronus" — she kissed his nose — "you fought amazingly in the Final Battle" — she gave his neck a peck — "and you've managed to put up with a know-it-all who loves you dearly." She rewarded him by giving Ron a long, slow, passionate kiss on the mouth that made the blood practically _fly_ below his belt-line.

_Oh__ boy._

It was a long time before she pulled back, but instead of getting to the start of things, Hermione gave him a proud smile, her eyes shining.

Well, he liked that, too.

"Of course," Hermione added firmly, her fingernail grazing irresistibly over his swollen lips, "you know that even if you hadn't done any of those things, you'd still be a great wizard. _My_ great wizard."

Ron gazed at her. Merlin, he _loved_ this witch. _She_ was the one who had believed in him even before he had done anything that could be considered an accomplishment. _She_ was the one who helped him with his Patronus and didn't laugh at the shape when he finally cast one. _She_ was the one who Ron always wanted to take care of, even if she didn't need it.

She was the _only_ witch he had ever considered spending the rest of his life with.

And it hit him like a bolt of lightning what he had to do. Without planning it, without really thinking it through, words slipped from his lips.

"I think there's one more accomplishment I want to achieve with that know-it-all . . ."

---^---

"_Man is not the sum of what he has but the totality of what he does not yet have, of what he might have."_

— Jean-Paul Sartre

---^---

_**A/N:**_ _It's been a while since I wrote Hermione and Ron together — I feel a bit rusty._

_This story is slightly different than the other ones, since the Patronu__s is only mentioned briefly, but I wanted to give a specific reason as to why Ron's Patronus was a Jack Russell Terrier._

_Thank you to those who took the time to write a review — they got me through the rollercoaster that was my first week back at college. Reviews make me happy!_

_A round of applause for my __wonderful betas __**queenb23**__ (who just won Beta-of-the-Year — you go girl!), __**redsioda**__, and __**shiiki**__._


	3. Neville Longbottom: The Lion Leader

_**Neville Longbottom: The Lion Leader**_

---^---

"_The wicked flee when no man pursueth; but the righteous are bold as a lion."_

— Proverbs 28:1

---^---

"Really good job, everyone! I'll let you know when the next meeting is by Monday. If you want to get in some extra practice before then, send a message on your coin and we'll set it up. See you next week."

There were calls of "Bye Neville!" "See you later, Neville!" and "Good meeting, Neville!" as the students left the Room of Requirement in twos and threes. With a bit of a twang in his heart Neville thought there must be barely fifty students left. It was a good number, but nearly two dozen less than there had been the month before. For some reason one face in particular stood out. . . .

Neville grabbed Susan Bones as she walked by. "Hey, you haven't seen Hannah around, have you?"

Susan bit her lip. "Not since dinner, I'm afraid." At Neville's look of resignation, she added, "But I don't think she quit though — she would have told me."

Neville gave her a small smile, trying to believe her. "Thanks Susan. I'll see you in Herbology." She nodded and left with Ernie Macmillan, leaving Neville alone.

Cushions and baskets had been scattered throughout the room, and the dummy that the younger students had been practicing on had been thrown haphazardly against the wall. Although he knew that the Room would clean itself up, he wanted some time to clear his head before he had to go to the common room.

Neville had to admit he wasn't surprised at Dumbledore Army's dwindling numbers. The disappearance of Ginny and Luna, not to mention Michael's nasty torturing, had been more than some students could take. Could he honestly blame them for being scared? Sometimes it was all he could do not to curl up under the covers and never come out.

Harry had made it look so easy. He had always managed to keep his head up and never seemed to doubt in his abilities once the D.A. got going.

But Neville wasn't the Chosen One. He hadn't faced Basilisks and thousands of Dementors. He had faced Death Eaters and both times ended up getting the worse end of the wand. Sometimes he wondered who he was trying to kid, thinking he could teach these students.

But if he didn't do it, who would?

As Neville Levitated a couple of books onto the bookshelf, he caught a look at himself in the mirror across the room. He had received a gash on his cheek yesterday to accompany the ugly cut on the opposite one, and his face was a covered with bruises of varying ages. The most recent were the sausage-shaped ones on his neck, courtesy of a run-in with Crabbe and Goyle that morning.

He looked more like someone's punching bag than a leader.

Neville tried to push these thoughts away as the last cushion was piled and the dummy was placed in the corner.

He had just picked up his satchel when a letter delivered that morning fell out onto the floor. The Carrows had been watching him so he had not had a chance to read it.

Placing his bag back on the floor, he picked the letter up and tore it open.

It was written in his Gran's prim scrawl.

_Dear Neville,_

_You must be giving those Death Eaters a run for their money. I just left an unpleasant visit from an Auror warranting my arrest. I won't tell you where I am in case this letter is intercepted, but I will say that I am safe and well. Although I can't say the same for Auror Dawlish — from what I heard, he's in St. Mungo's, worse for wear. Serves him right._

_That, however, is not the point of writing. _

_From your last letter, you seem a bit frustrated by the goings on at the school, but I'm telling you as your grandmother and guardian, __don't you give up__. You have become a leader, whether you're ready for it or not, and people look to you as an example. Remember that, Neville, and keep fighting._

_You have grown up into a fine young man — pure of heart and braver than many wizards three times your age. There is no doubt that you are your parents' son, and if they were not in their condition, perhaps only they could be prouder of you than I am._

_I shall see you again soon._

_Gran_

Neville read the words again, smiling wide for the first time in what seemed like forever. He couldn't remember the last time his grandmother had been so candid with him — at least not positively.

But it didn't matter. Gran had said she was _proud_ of him. Not of his father. Not of his mother. Proud of _Neville_. Her grandson.

_You have become a leader, whether you're ready for it or not._

Neville had always known it in his heart but the words hit him like a Stunning spell. Somehow, without realizing it, he had changed from a frightened little boy into a man students depended on.

Him. Neville Longbottom.

Harry couldn't save them while he was fighting somewhere outside the Hogwarts walls. There was no Luna to help guide with her frankness and quiet wisdom. And Ginny was not there to inspire students with her stubbornness to the cause.

He had to carry the responsibility alone now.

If the D.A. was going to be ready for the day when they would have to put their skills to use, he needed to be the one hold them together.

Neville folded up his grandmother's letter, tucking it in his shirt pocket, and there was a new, determined air in his step as he left the Room of Requirement.

Yet, as with all sense of purpose, it was not long before it was tested.

He had only walked a couple of corridors when the light from the stars and torches winked out. The happiness that he just felt was draining away like bathwater down a pipe.

Neville swallowed. _Dementors._

His first, brief thought was to turn the other way — Dementors were hardly under control these days and a lonely student could very well find himself without a soul — but he couldn't imagine that they were wandering into the castle by accident. Something was going on.

He slowly dropped his bag and drew out his wand before slinking, almost catlike, through the shadows.

Then he heard a scream that made his blood run cold.

"No! _No!_ _NOOOOO_!"

He recognized the scream, but it had never sounded this scared before. _Hannah!_

Forgetting about caution, Neville raced towards the screams with his heart exploding against his ribs. He turned a corner to find the corridor empty. She had to be in one of the classrooms!

"Not fun, is it, Abbott?"

The second voice was slightly muffled, but he'd recognize Amycus Carrow's wheeze anywhere.

"Just tell me how you're communicating with that rebel band of yours and be done with it."

Neville skidded to a halt in front of door that pulsed with freezing cold, and he heard voices from inside.

Hannah was sobbing now. "No! _Please stop_!"

"Ah ah ah," Amycus giggled. "Can't do it, Abbott. Not until you tell me everything."

Hannah screamed again. He didn't need to hear more.

Years later, Neville wouldn't know how he did it. All he knew as that something, whether it was adrenaline or courage, made him to grab the knob and throw the door open.

_"What the —?"_

For a moment, he saw Amycus twirling two wands in the corner as a large, silver shrew marched in front of him, watching the Dementor circling like bird of pray over Hannah as she cowered on the floor. Rage roared through Neville's veins, and he focused every nerve of his being on his Gran and the letter telling him how proud she was.

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_

The room was filled with a dazzling bright light as a huge silver lion exploded from his wand and burst into the room in a soaring leap. Amycus's shrew vanished, and the Dementor threw itself out of a closed window, shattering the glass in its desperation to escape Neville's Patronus.

"YOU!"

Amycus had seemed to get over the shock enough to turn his wand at the intruder.

But Neville was ready. "_Stupefy_!"

The older wizard keeled over like a dead Doxy.

Panting, Neville turned to see if Hannah was all right. To his surprise, his lion Patronus was still in the room, standing erect over the Hufflepuff's body like a guard as it stared at Neville with its deep silver eyes.

He walked over to the animal, the rage replaced with a mixture of awe and excitement. He had never been able to form a full-fledged corporeal Patronus before and seeing it for the first time sent a wonderful thrill through him.

"Thank you," he whispered.

The lion shook his great hairy head and faded just as Hannah slowly pushed herself into a sitting position. She blinked at him, as though not sure he was there.

Neville took Hannah's shaking hands and helped her to her feet. He didn't like how ghostly she looked. "C'mon. We better get out of here before Amycus wakes up. I'll walk you to your common room."

Hannah wordlessly grabbed her wand from the Death Eater's pudgy hand and they hurried out of the room, Neville locking it behind him.

He pulled Hannah behind a suit of armor as soon as she looked well enough to speak. "What happened?" he asked.

"Amycus locked m-m-me in that r-r-room after dinner," she told him in a quivering voice. "He had only s-started trying to g-get information when you c-came in." She gave him a pleading look. "I d-didn't tell him anything, Neville. I s-s-swear."

"I know," he told her reassuringly.

"I feel s-so _stupid_." Her eyes were watery and she rubbed them with her fingers to stop the tears. "I kn-knew I could beat him. He was just _s-standing_ there holding m-my wand, but I c-couldn't do _anything._"

"It's all right," he told her, caressing her back in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. "Of course you could've beaten him if they hadn't been there. Dementors are nasty buggers. They could've affected any one of us."

"N-Not you," Hannah whispered. "You were . . . you were _amazing_, Neville." She was still shaking, but the look she gave him . . . he couldn't help the blush that rushed to his face.

"I d-didn't know you c-could do a P-Patronus."

"Neither did I," he admitted. "It's the first time I've done it."

His head jerked when he thought he heard footsteps and he grabbed her hand again. "C'mon."

They raced through the corridors without running into anymore trouble, and soon after Hannah stopped at a painting of a vase full of flowers.

"Now, get some rest," Neville instructed firmly. "Eat some chocolate, too, if you can find some. It really helps."

She already seemed better. The pink had started to rise back to her cheeks and her hands weren't shaking as she tickled a yellow daffodil in the painting. The canvas opened with a loud creak, letting loose the chattering of students inside.

"You'll remind us how to do Patronuses at the next D.A. meeting, will you, Neville?" she asked softly. She was looking at him in a way that made him feel like some kind of storybook hero and it felt . . . good.

He nodded. "Of course."

And without any further ado, she stood on her toes and gave him a peck on his gashed cheek. "Good night, Neville. And thank you."

"Good night," he repeated in a hoarse voice. Was it really nighttime? Everything seemed as bright as Voldemort being defeated on a sunny, spring day.

Still smiling, Hannah stepped inside the Hufflepuff common room and closed the painting behind her.

Neville stood staring at the painted flowers like a fool for a long while before gathering himself enough to race to Gryffindor Tower.

He had barely stepped inside the portrait hole half an hour later when Seamus came panting up to him with a look of pure relief behind the brand new bruise around his eye.

"Neville! Bloody hell — I thought they had gotten to you already!"

He started. "What are you talking about? Who got to me?"

"Who do you think? The Carrows, of course!" Seamus seized his arm and dragged him to a dark corner of the common room. "You know that house-elf who's been helping out — Sudsy? Well, he overheard them talking while he was sweeping the corridors. Did you really rescue Hannah with a lion Patronus?"

Neville smirked a little. "Yeah, I did. Gave Amycus a bit of a fright."

Seamus whistled. "It seems that's the last straw. They've had enough of you and want you out of here. Permanently."

He wasn't surprised. Since reading Gran's letter Neville he had somehow known it was only a matter of time before something like this happened.

"You've got to leave the school," Seamus hissed when Neville didn't reply. "Otherwise you'll end up in Azkaban — or worse."

But he couldn't just drop everything and disappear. Who would lead the D.A.? What about the Room of Requirement? Who would close all the loopholes the needed to make sure they kept the unwanted out?

_Wait, the Room of Requirement. . . ._

"No, I don't," Neville said quietly.

Seamus looked ready to throttle him. "_Merlin's nob, Neville!_ This is no time to be noble —!"

"No, listen —" he motioned Seamus closer, and spoke in a hushed voice "— I'll hide out in the Room of Requirement. My Gran's on the run, so I have nowhere to go. If I stay here we can still have D.A. meetings and when Harry comes back —"

"_If _he comes back," Seamus interrupted darkly.

"_When_ he comes back," Neville went on as if he hadn't spoken, "I'll be able to help." Harry wasn't one to pick up and run. The D.A. was for training fighters to help defeat Voldemort and his army. Harry would come back — he had to.

"What do you want me to tell the rest of the D.A.?" Seamus asked.

"Just let everyone know not to worry, okay? And keep tomorrow evening free. I know how to do a Patronus now and I want to teach you lot as soon as possible — especially if the Carrows are using Dementors as torture devices."

Seamus nodded, looking suddenly very, very old and tired. "I don't know if I can take much more of this, Neville," he admitted quietly.

Neville had never seen him so forlorn.

"We _can't_ give up," Neville insisted, placing a hand on Seamus's shoulder. "Harry _will_ come back. I keep tell you it's only a matter of time. And when he does, we'll be able to make Hogwarts right again."

Swallowing, Seamus placed a hand on Neville's and squeezed, as though trying to draw his friend's valor into himself. "Well, just keep yourself safe, all right?" He gave a small grin in an effort to battle back the dark cloud. "I don't want you getting yourself captured before I've learned how to do a proper Patronus. Last time I know I managed something furry."

Neville couldn't help it — he laughed.

"Believe me, Seamus — if I can do it, you shouldn't have a problem."

---^---

_"Keep your fears to yourself, but share your courage with others."_

— Robert Louis Stevenson

---^---

_**A/N:**__ This one was my favorite to write, but was also the hardest to be satisfied with. I love Neville, and his butt-kicking development in DH proved what I knew all along: that there's a lot more to him then what some might think. _

_I would really appreciate reviews!_

_Last, Theodore Nott and a leopard…_


	4. Theodore Nott: The Leopard Son

_**Theodore Nott: The Leopard Son**_

---^---

When the tiger stalks the jungle like the lowering clouds of a thunderstorm, the leopard moves as silently as mist drifting on a dawn wind.

— An Indian Proverb

---^---

Theodore mindlessly drew on the counter of the apothecary with his finger, watching a group of Muggles shoveling the sidewalks in their attempts to make some sort of path in the piling snow, completely obvious to Theodore or the shop. It had been a rather slow day — yesterday's blizzard had completely obscured the streets, making attempts to venture out laughable until it was cleared. Nicholas Addy had gone into London for some business, leaving Theodore in charge of the shop. He wasn't sure whether this responsibility showed his maternal grandfather's trust in him or his obliviousness to the world.

As a boy, his own father hadn't trusted his son enough for Theodore to be let out of his bedroom when he went "out." He remembered shivering on his bed through days of seeing no one but the house-elves who brought him three square meals. Once Theodore had started school Sylvanus Nott seemed to think it was easier not to bother with him at all — unless he was drunk, of course — and left him to his own devices.

He didn't know which was worse: his father locking him his bedroom or being so apathetic that he appeared to forget he had a son.

Grandad Addy, however. . . .

After his father's arrest, he had received a letter from the Ministry saying that his dead mum's father had agreed to take him in. They hadn't seen each other since his mother's funeral — almost twelve years ago now — and Theodore had always believed that he simply hadn't cared enough about him to ever acknowledge his existence.

Now, however, he had to admit he didn't think so.

Living with him was like being in a foreign country. His grandad wanted to know everything about him: what books he liked, what his favorite food was, whether he rode a broomstick. He had talked the whole train ride from London into town, ignoring Theodore's dark looks whenever he was required to give more than a one word reply.

Over the few weeks during the summer, he learned to put up with his grandfather's talkativeness and questions — even find them somewhat amusing at times. Once Theodore had let slip his aptitude for potions, he had immediately been put to work in Grandad's apothecary, which turned out to be pretty interesting. And the fact he was able to do magic while he was working helped; as long as he cast it in there any magic picked up was his grandad's.

Grandad had looked sad to see him go when he left for school again, and Theodore was surprised to find he was, too. Just a bit. Slightly.

Despite all this, there was the tiny problem that whenever the two of them were in the same room together: he couldn't help the feeling that there was some kind of _veil_ between them. And Theodore didn't know if he was shielding himself behind it — or trying to hide his Grandad.

It had pestered him the whole time he had been at school, and he had come back for the Christmas holidays — something he hadn't with bothered in years — to figure it out.

But so far, nothing.

And now on top of all this, he'd be seventeen just a few days after Christmas. An adult. Soon it would be time for the decision he had been dreading for a year and a half. Once his father escaped (and Theodore had little doubt he would — after all, Bellatrix Lestrange, one of the most heavily guarded prisoners in his lifetime, had escaped; why not his father?), he would be expected to join the Death Eaters. Maybe even before, if anyone remembered that Sylvanus had a son.

He shook his head, trying to ignore this thought, but it kept niggling at the back of his brain. And the more it did, the more his stomach felt like it was going to crawl its way out of his body.

Theodore had never been _sure_ he wanted to join the Death Eaters. And, to be honest, now that he had seen the effects, via Draco Malfoy, he had even less desire to do so.

One of his father's favorite things to do while intoxicated was rant about how great the Dark Lord was and how honorable it had been to serve under him. After Theodore's fourth year, though, all Sylvanus could talk about was how his son would "follow his footsteps to a new order" once he came of age and how the Dark Lord was going to change things into "the way they're supposed to."

He had grown up with the belief of pure-blood superiority — had believed that change was needed. But he didn't feel strong enough about it to march under the snake-and-skull banner of wizard who was twenty times more fanatical than his father.

Still, on the other hand, perhaps by joining, he could finally get some sort of respect from his father — the only thing, if Theodore was honest with himself, he had ever wanted from him. If the Dark Lord won, those who helped would without a doubt be rewarded. And if he mentioned his Potions skills, maybe he wouldn't have to do any stupid jobs like Malfoy was doing.

But what it came down to was that Theodore hated being a follower. He had learned to live independently, on his own cleverness and his own amusement. The thought of ending up as a mindless yes-man like Crabbe and Goyle, who had as much brain as an Ashwinder egg, or worse, being thrown into Azkaban because of some fool errand he had been forced to run, made him want to hang himself.

He would've given anything — _anything_ — to not have to choose at all.

The bell above the door gave a small tinkle and a sudden cold draft blew into the shop, starting Theodore from his brooding. The visitor was wrapped in a thick fur coat that reminded him of a polar bear, and seeing her blond hair and pale face, he recognized her instantly.

"Greengrass?"

Daphne Greengrass blinked and stared at him. "Nott? What are you doing here?"

He could ask the same thing. "My grandfather owns this shop."

She smiled slightly. "Is he who you've been staying with? The girls and I have been wondering."

Theodore didn't know whether to be offended or interested that Daphne's group of Slytherin girls was discussing his business. He wasn't in the mood to be either, so he simply ignored it.

"What are you doing in town?" he asked. "Don't you live in Norfolk somewhere?"

"I'm visiting my aunt for Christmas," she explained. "But she has a cold and we're out of Pepperup Potion. She sent me down here to find out if you had any."

Theodore shook his head. "Sorry — last bit went out with Grandad. But if you're willing to wait about ten minutes, I'll make a fresh batch."

Greengrass considered it for a moment and then nodded. "All right."

Theodore snapped his fingers and a cauldron full of water floated from the back room to place itself in the fireplace. He didn't even have to consciously think when he began working. He knew how to whip up a Pepperup with his eyes closed from all he times he had helped make it with Professor Snape.

The water had just been brought to a boil when a silvery falcon flew out from the chimney. The falcon, which he recognized to be a Patronus, flapped above his head and opened its beak.

_"I'm going to be a little later than I thought. Can you close up for me?"_ it said in Grandad's voice.

There was only one memory that helped cast a Patronus. Theodore thought hard about his message and his mother's laughing face — the only clear memory he had of her — then recited the Patronus incantation.

A large leopard formed out of his wand and was up the chimney in a flash. He turned to get back to the potion, only to find Greengrass staring at him. "What?" he demanded.

"You can produce a Patronus?"

"Grandad taught me over the summer." When she continued to gaze at him, he added defensively, "It's useful for sending messages."

She shrugged. "Sorry. It's just . . . I didn't think —"

"Didn't think the son of a Death Eater could do it?" he asked accusatorily.

"Well . . . yeah."

_Leave it to Daphne to be blunt._ "Well, us Death Eaters' sons do more than sit around drinking tea and plotting assassinations," he said dryly.

Greengrass looked stricken, then furious. "Don't joke about stuff like that!" she cried angrily. "It's not funny! It's — it's. . . ." She trailed off, blinking rapidly as her eyes began to water.

_Oh Merlin. . . ._

Even though he hated being around crying girls, he felt like he should say something, being her housemate and all. They had never been "friends" exactly, but Theodore was the one she went to when she had trouble with her Potions homework, and he . . . well, he had asked her about Charms theories a couple of times.

On second thought, maybe he didn't owe her anything.

But she looked close to blubbering anyway, and he could work while she talked.

"Are you all right?" he asked flatly.

"N-N-No!" she sobbed, looking half-relieved, half-anguished. "I don't . . . I'm worried. . . ."

Theodore rolled his eyes and handed her a clean rag from one of the drawers beneath the counter. "All right, all right. Calm down before you talk." _I don't speak blubberish._

She blew her nose into the rag and took a couple of heavy gulps. Within minutes, she seemed to be calm enough to talk like a human being. Theodore had to commend Greengrass on her self-control.

She tried handing him back the rag, but he waved it away. She might need it if she began sobbing again. "I'm worried about Draco," she said finally.

Ah yes. Everyone in Slytherin knew about her not-so-secret fancy for Malfoy. Not that it mattered — it was a well-known fact that Malfoy was Parkinson's property. Still, Theodore had always thought Greengrass could do better.

"You know that he's . . ." she lowered her voice conspiratorially, "that he's working for _him_ now, right?" Theodore nodded.

"Well, since then . . . he hasn't acted like himself. Have you noticed?"

"I live with him, remember?" he replied as he grounded peppercorn with a bowl and pestle.

Malfoy had never let on what he was doing all those hours away, only that the Dark Lord had given him the job, _personally_, and that it was essential to his plans. At first, he had held it over the entire Slytherin house to get what he wanted in a way that was mildly pathetic. Lately though, Malfoy was downright jumpy most of the time and looked as though he hadn't slept in weeks. Theodore had walked into their dorm more than once to see him sitting on the bed, muttering to his hands like some kind of madman. He had never been friendly with Malfoy, but no one deserved that.

"I don't — I wish he hadn't been so — idiotic," she admitted quietly.

He dumped the peppercorn into the cauldron, cocking his head at her curiously. "Idiotic?"

"Idiotic," she repeated firmly. "I don't know what he's doing, but . . . it's killing him, and messing up our — I mean, Pansy's — relationship."

She seemed to be trying hard not to blush as she went on, "I mean, your dad got himself locked up, too, and I don't see you out there trying to — I don't know — avenge him or something." She said it flippantly, as if his father had gone on vacation.

Theodore scowled at her, but she didn't seem to notice. She had no right to talk about him.

"Well, I guess Draco's braver than me," he replied coldly as he started cutting up lionfish fins.

"No — just more . . . impetuous," she said with a sigh.

He nearly scowled, again. Here she was, being stubbornly loyal to the git, and he spent most of the time ignoring her very existence. He didn't know whether to feel pity for Greengrass or anger at Malfoy.

"Well, I might be joining your Draco Dearest soon," he snapped.

Theodore didn't know what had made him say that, and he nearly blushed as soon as the words left his mouth.

"What do you mean?"

He couldn't turn back now, and knowing Daphne, she wouldn't let it go until she had the details.

"I mean . . . I'll be of age two days after Christmas." He poured the lionfish fins into the cauldron, and the mixture began to sizzle. "My dad wants me to practically shove my arm under the Dark Lord's nose."

"But your dad's in Azkaban!" she cried. "He can't make you —"

"He might . . . eventually."

"He _can't_!" she insisted. "It's your life — you don't have to if you don't want to." She looked blinked at him. "You don't, right?"

Theodore sprinkled some shredded Chinese Chomping Cabbage into the potion before answering. Now that was the Million Galleon Question, wasn't it?

If he searched himself, the answer would be no. If nothing else, because he didn't want to give his life for someone he didn't even like much.

"No . . . not really."

"There you go then," she said smugly.

He smirked at her naiveté. "You make it seem so easy. You don't know my dad."

"But I know you . . . well enough, anyway," she added.

Theodore lifted an eyebrow. "Well then, what do you know about me?" _This ought to be good._

"I know that you have more brains then most boys in Slytherin house put together." She ticked off her fingers, staring at him fiercely. "Which means you're too smart to be a Death Eater drone. You're the only one Draco sees as an equal, and you're the only other boy besides Draco that I have respect for. You're probably one of the few in our year who can produce a Patronus. But you don't show it off because you're frightened of crowds or spotlights and avoid them like a plague." She smiled at him a little smugly. "How did I do?"

He had to work hard to keep his face impassive but was intrigued just the same. Perhaps he hadn't given Greengrass much credit: she was self-absorbed, true, but she must be more perceptive than he though to make all those observations.

"I don't want you to go through the same thing that —" she swallowed hard "— the same thing that Draco is, Nott. No one deserves that."

He stuck his wand into cauldron, shooting a Bluebell Flame into the potion. It bubbled and turned a bright red. After waiting a moment for it to settle, he took a jar from below the counter and ladled in the Pepperup.

"That'll be four Sickles," he said, closing up the jar.

She handed him the silver coins, her look pointed. "You'll think about what I said, right?"

He nodded as he dropped the money in the register.

"Thank you, Theodore," she said, picking up the jar.

He lifted his head at the use of his name. His first name. He couldn't remember her ever using it, and it sounded odd, coming from her mouth.

"You have a good visit, Daphne." They probably wouldn't ever be the best of friends, but there seemed to be some kind of understanding between them.

She smiled and left. There was a path now on the pavement, and Theodore watched her go until she turned a corner and disappeared.

He tapped his fingers on the counter a long time afterward, pondering over Daphne's unexpected observations about him. She had missed one thing, however, or had decided not to say it.

He was bloody scared.

He didn't want power, or glory, or even a reward. All he wanted was to grow old and make potions like Grandad. He didn't have to _prove_ anything to his father. And Theodore didn't want to be him, either. What had they ever done for each other?

And then it hit him. Grandad was the one he had come to respect. Somehow, within the last few months, he realized at if there was anyone he wanted to make proud, it was Nicholas Addy.

Grandad was content to sit in this shop and do the thing he had a passion for — just like Theodore. _He_ didn't expect him to join the Death Eaters. He just expected Theodore to do what _Theodore_ wanted.

And Theodore preferred keeping his skin safe.

That was it. He had made his decision. Whether his father escaped or not, he wasn't going to team up with You-Know-Who. That didn't mean he'd join Potter or his lot . . . but he wouldn't fight against him, either.

He would be solitary — like his Patronus — in the shadows where the spotlight couldn't catch him, and he could avoid the future his father had wanted of him.

Yet, as he stood there in the empty apothecary, the realization of what his choice meant hit him with the force of the Whomping Willow. An odd feeling had taken hold in his middle — as though he had swallowed a frozen crap whole.

Trying to make the decision was the easy part compared with what would happen next: living with what he had chosen. The Death Eaters were like wolves: either you were one of them or you might as well be the day's meal. Theodore knew that as far as they were concerned, he was committing an act of betrayal, and there would be no forgiveness for that.

The Dark Lord and his followers had overlooked him for now, but it wouldn't be that way much longer. They would try to force him to join, he was sure of it — whether by torturing him or his grandad.

If he was going to survive to see his twentieth birthday, going at it alone was out of the question.

That evening, after he had closed the shop and gone home, he sent his grandfather another message.

_"I want to talk to you when you get back. Wake me up if I fall asleep."_

To his surprise, the Patronus that erupted from his wand was slightly different than his normal one. The spots were gone, leaving it sleek and dark, yet shaped the same. A panther, he realized. Theodore nearly smirked.

_What do you know? I suppose leopards — what's the phrase? — _do_ change their spots._

---^---

_"One's mind has a way of making itself up in the background, and it suddenly becomes clear what one means to do."_

— A. C. Benson

---^---

_**A/N:**__ And we come to the last part. I hope I haven't depressed you too much._

_Like "Flower Witches" there is a "curtained theme" going on within. This series was inspired by something Shakespeare once said (Ten points to the individual who can tell me what play that's from!):_

**"Be not afraid of greatness; some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them." **__

_In this story,_ _Harry was "born" great (the entire series are from Harry's POV, so I thought James would be more interesting), Ron "achieved" greatness, Neville had  
greatness "thrust upon him," and Theodore was afraid of greatness. Interesting, eh?_

_There's a lot of people to thank for this story:_

_Applause to __**queenb23**__ for your sharp eye on my grammar — __**RedSioda**__ for her in-depth advice on the tone for Theodore's part — and to __**shiiki**__ for editing this so quick! You all have been wonderful and it has been an honor to work with you._

_Thank you to __**honouraryweasley**__, __**missgranger2**__, and __**undercloakkept**__ for their suggestions on Neville's and Theodore's Patronuses all those weeks ago._

_And thank you to those who reviewed and took the time to read this little story. I am so pleased with the response to this, and I hope you have enjoyed this project as much as I have. (And in a shamless bit of pluggery, anyone who would like to visit my LiveJournal — the link is on my profile — is welcome to do so! I adore making new friends!)_

_Until next time,_

_MagikCat_

_.#cutid1_


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